Trafficking with Triffids
by septempopuli
Summary: An old friend has recovered...
1. Default Chapter

**Trafficking with Triffids**

**Disclaimer:** J. K. Rowling's copyright of characters and locations is acknowledged.

**A/n:** the action takes place some time after the events of OotP.

**Chapter 1: The Agonies of Authorship**

We authors have a huge responsibility to our public, a responsibility I can assure my many thousands of devoted readers that I am most conscious of. And so I am hard at work, putting the finishing touches to my latest article, which I know is so eagerly awaited: a highly important piece, dealing with the characteristics of the North American triffid (triffidus N. Americanus), a species which differs from all other known species of triffid in that it is to be found chiefly in North America. But first, the poetic muse has inspired me, and I make haste to record these deathless lines, lest they should be lost to posterity:

My head is sore,

My eyes are raw;

On triffid lore

I gaze and pore,

As I strive to complete the latest instalment of my series of articles for the _Quibbler._

Memo to myself: possibly consider if that last line might need slight adjustment. I am, after all, a perfectionist.

* * *

The village of Ottery St Frideswide is remembered by historians for its witch trials in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, but today it is chiefly visited by tourists who come to admire its immaculate thatched cottages clustered around the well-tended village green. Only one cottage detracts from the view: in the far corner of the green, number thirteen has a dilapidated and forlorn appearance. Its eccentric owner is shunned by the other residents, and the rickety front gate and overgrown garden path are seldom used.

Inside, the owner was sitting by an open window, struggling with a muggle device he had never really got the hang of: a typewriter. Gazing in perplexity at the strange arrangement of its keys, he realised suddenly that the longest word you can type with the letters of one line of the typewriter is _typewriter_! Surely this was a discovery worthy of the front page! – But then he had already filled that with a most important article on the impact of fluoridation on the livelihood of the tooth fairy. And in any case, he reflected, the printer was waiting for the copy for the Halloween issue, and he only needed to receive the triffid article to complete the final few lines on the back page. At that, there was a high pitched squeak, and a flutter of wings, and he looked up to see the small creature crouched on the window sill. He reached forward gingerly to take the letter, trying to avoid the open mouth with its wickedly-pointed teeth. A moment later, as he winced in pain and sucked his bleeding finger, Siderius Lovegood reflected bitterly that, of all his correspondents, only Aberforth would be crazy enough to use a bat instead of an owl.


	2. The Benefits of Blackmail

**Trafficking with Triffids**

**Chapter 2: The Benefits of Blackmail**

We authors, having satisfied the voracious demands of our public, need time to gain fresh inspiration. And so, having sent Igor on his way with my article, I laid down my pen with a satisfied sigh. (Yes, a pen; I have no truck with that muggle device – a _tripewriter_, or whatever it is called – that Siderius uses.) I must have slept for some time, because when I awoke dear little Igor was back, hanging from the curtain rail in his accustomed place beside his sister Irma, and looking decidedly sleepy; no doubt, to judge from his rather full tummy, his visit to Siderius had proved quite _nourishing_. Then I realised what had caused me to wake: there was a noise of someone marooned on the roof and calling for help. This could only mean that a visitor had mis-apparated, and that in turn could only mean one person. I shuddered in apprehension as I went to fetch a ladder.

* * *

He entered the room, carefully smoothing his robes, in case his misadventure had left them in the slightest disarray. "Bats!" he exclaimed in horror, eyeing Igor and Irma. "Don't let them near my hair!" He reached swiftly into his robes for a shower cap which he placed over his wavy blond hair.

"What are you doing here?" I asked harshly. "After that incident with the flobber worms, I thought I told you never to come back."

"Don't worry," he said airily, "I won't keep you long. I just need to borrow one of your triffids."

"Triffids? I haven't got any triffids! You know it's illegal to grow them!"

"Oh, you'll let me have one right enough. Otherwise, I shall have to tell Albus about the _second _goat."

"_The second goat!_" I gasped. "But he hasn't completely forgiven me for the first one!"

"Then perhaps you would like to lead the way to your greenhouse?" he smiled.

* * *

I had secured the package with spellotape, but it was still wriggling. "You realise this is sheer blackmail?" I said, as I passed it to him.  
"Oh, yes, I've always said there's nothing to beat a spot of blackmail – except perhaps for a memory charm. _Obliviate!_"

* * *


	3. A Partiality for Pumpkins

**Trafficking with Triffids  
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**A/n:** Special thanks to madame-knight for reviewing; I hope you like this third chapter as much as I'm enjoying your fic "The Art of Ego Deflation".

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Chapter 3: A Partiality for Pumpkins  
  
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Hagrid hastened along the corridor, walking straight through Nearly Headless Nick in his preoccupation. Pausing only to wave his hand in a vague apology, he hurried on.

"Beetle juice!" The staircase to the headmaster's office opened before him, and in a trice he was bursting into the room. "Professor Dumbledore, sir!" he shouted, "Half me pumpkins is gone!"

Albus looked up from his book and raised one eyebrow (only one; he reserved the other for really important occasions). "When was this?" he asked calmly.

"Last night, professor." said Hagrid. "When me and Fang went out this morning, they was gone. And we never heard nothing in the night, and nor did Grawp..." He tailed off in confusion, since Grawp's continued presence in the Forbidden Forest was strictly unofficial.

"I never heard the last part, Hagrid," said Dumbledore quietly. "But tell me more about the pumpkins."

"Well, sir, the funny thing is, half of them had gone rotten with all the rain we've had, but the thieves only took the rotten ones, and left all the healthy ones. Now why would anyone want to do a thing like that?"

"The question," said Dumbledore slowly to himself, "is not why but where... Hagrid, send an owl to Kingsley Shacklebolt, and say I suggest a little excursion to Ottery St Catchpole might prove enlightening..."

In the village of Ottery St Frideswide, life continued its even tenor, although the residents would have been disturbed to learn of two new occupants of number thirteen, only one of them human, and neither particularly sane.

And in a windowless room of that same cottage, Gilderoy was in difficulties. The triffid hunched in the corner was it seemed neither biddable nor bribable. "Siderius!" he shouted.

Lovegood nervously inched open the door. "Do you really believe this is a good idea, Gilderoy?" he began.

"Listen, Siderius. Once I have perfected the ingredients of my new hair care lotion, your paper will have a world exclusive on the news! A moment of fame for the _Scribbler_!"

"_Quibbler_, actually," said Lovegood huffily, retreating rapidly as the triffid launched itself forward from its corner, shuffling on its small root-like feet.

"Back, you fiend!" screamed Lockhart, brandishing his wand. "_Immobilis_!" But the spell only seemed to give the triffid renewed energy as it surged forward. It balled one of its tentacles into something remarkably like a human fist, and lashing out struck him on the face. "No!" he shouted, "You'll ruin my foundation cream!" He retreated towards the door. "Listen!" he called desperately. "Just let me take an itsy-bitsy little bit of your sap in this syringe, and you can have a lovely rotten pumpkin, all for your very own..."


	4. Memory Man

**Trafficking with Triffids**

**Chapter 4: Memory Man**

In the village of Ottery St Frideswide, something had at last happened to disturb its placid existence. All around the green, curtains twitched as the residents watched the tall man and the girl in torn jeans and bright pink hair make their way to number thirteen.

Inside, they soon located Lockhart, now festooned with puce-coloured dreadlocks, and his unwilling accomplice. Tonks was gazing avidly at Gilderoy, and probably, Kingsley realised with a groan, planning to copy him.

"Ah, Gilderome previously. Now I remember how you tricked me into writing all your books for you, and how you stole..."

Kingsley turned to Tonks. "It seems," he said, "that there should be plenty here to keep the Wizengamot busy for quite a long time..."

THE END


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